


Mid-October

by BunnyMoss



Series: The Other Daughter [2]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Children, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, One Big Happy Family, Prose Poem, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:59:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyMoss/pseuds/BunnyMoss
Summary: Five PM, mid-October and the music stops, the static clears. Screens across the country show a picturesque scene. A tall lectern emblazoned with a red royal banner steals the foreground, snow-capped mountains erupting from autumn-orange trees paint a breathtaking backdrop. Pagan Min stands front and center, beaming. Looking healthier than ever, far less afraid of the camera. Far less sardonic. Alive.





	Mid-October

Five PM on the nose, the gentlest of autumn breezes blowing through the buildings, blustering across the treetops.

The TV displays nothing but static and the Royal Seal, a cheery military march to fill the silence, grab attention.

Five PM mid-October, an important broadcast from the Ministry of Public Affairs and Social Harmony.

Patched directly from the Royal Fortress.

Five PM mid-October, his fifty-first birthday today.

Everyone in Kyrat is tuned in, even those who haven't rightly been bothered in the past. The state of the country has seen a turnaround in the past two years. People are happier. Things are looking up. Not perfect, but _better_. Kyrat is on the mend.

Five PM, mid-October and the music stops, the static clears. Screens across the country show a picturesque scene. A tall lectern emblazoned with a red royal banner steals the foreground, snow-capped mountains erupting from autumn-orange trees paint a breathtaking backdrop. Pagan Min stands front and center, beaming. Looking healthier than ever, far less afraid of the camera. Far less sardonic. _Alive_.

He straightens, stiffens his shoulders. Takes a visible breath, looking right into the camera. Into the eyes of everyone observing on screens big and small. His smile is wide, warm, and endearing. People have learned to trust this smile. Not everyone does, not everyone will. But things are looking up. Pagan's Light has finally shone upon Kyrat. She is on the mend.

“Five PM, and here we are,” he says with pause, “fifty-one years old today! What a lovely turn-out for such a grand occasion!”

There is a dull, distant chatter of applause and cheer. A crowd of onlookers and party-goers. A celebration for the King, another year on this Earth and a televised moment to thank his subjects. Something of pomp and circumstance, really, but the success of last year's broadcast was remarkable. The people like to see their leader, no longer a recluse, mingling with his subjects. The Fortress is opened to respectable guests. Hands are shook, drinks are passed about, they get a glimpse of Him, resplendent. All is well, they're complacent. They can bring the infectious remnants of the revelry home and spread that cheer through another year, hopeful for next year’s grand festivities.

“I'd like to take this time to thank you all for coming to celebrate with your King,” Pagan beams through his rehearsed niceties.

This year's broadcast is live online, accessible worldwide. It's not the middle-ages here any more, they’ve got catching up to do. And with hard work and dedication, Kyrat may soon be something worth showing the world. This is all they'll get for now, this and the King's own Twitter, but it's something. Kyrat is on the mend. They’re broadcasting a live peace talk nationally in two weeks.

“I am so proud of each and every one of you for your hard work and dedication to making Kyrat a shining gem on the map. For helping your brothers and sisters in aiding your King, bettering your country. _That_ ,” he gestures pointedly at the camera, “is the greatest birthday gift to give a man who has everything.”

Faintly, barely registered on the microphone on the lectern, little tiny footsteps patter across hollow wood. Pagan Min makes to speak again, lips parted as his chest rises with a breath, and instead stiffens in uncomfortable surprise. His even, genial expression falls for a moment in concern as his eyes fall to his feet. He bends a bit awkwardly, looking straight down at his side, and suddenly his face warms like sunlight from behind a parting cloud. His entire demeanor changes in an instant from proud, poised dignity to humbled, softened humility. Affording only a flick of a glance towards the cameras, the King bends down, disappearing entirely out of the frame.

_“-papa!”_

In his arms when he rises, sat on his hip, is a tiny young girl no older than two. For being so little her hair is all wild black curls, pulled into some fashion of pigtails on her head. She clutches at the breast of his suit with one hand as she makes a swipe at the microphone with the other, to which he simply chuckles and moves her away. Gently curls her arm in, cradles her close as he sways, trying to find words to say.

“Truly sorry, ah, a moment please…”

Five o'seven PM, mid-October and the whole world watches the King of Kyrat stroke this child's back, hushing her and smiling into her hair. All is quiet. Not even the teetering crowd there with him says a word. This much respect hasn't been afforded to the King in years without threats of violence. The little girl turns her cheek against Pagan Min's chest, watches the cameras in her face with big brown eyes. His eyes, unmistakably. And finally he speaks again, but not to the hushed crowd or to the whole world watching, waiting. He turns back, looking far off-camera, and beckons. Insists. It takes him a moment, for whoever he's addressing must be camera shy. His muffled murmurs are encouraging and sugar-sweet. So strange to hear undistinguished.

“Thank you all, so much, for your patience. My apologies for the interruption,” the King says, his face flushed with the slightest hint of humble embarrassment.

The little girl in his arms pipes up as a woman joins the two of them in the shot, awkwardly trying to find the right place to stand with the child in between them. She’s visibly uncomfortable in the lights, trying to blink away the brightness. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and the child seems content to be between the two of them. Pagan Min looks into the camera for a long, long moment. Trying to find those words to say again. He looks to the child in his arms. Looks to the woman at his side, who looks back at him seeking encouragement. Serenity settles over him. He mouths something to the tall, curly raven-haired woman, and she relaxes visibly. Reaches out and wraps her arm around the small of his back, closing the gap between the three of them.

“ _Well_. I suppose it's time I introduce you. Always waiting for the right time, never finding it. Now here we are. What a surprise,” Pagan laughs, eyes glittering, “I would like you all to meet my wife, Vanya. Queen by title.”

The woman beside him, Vanya, grins so wide it crinkles up her freckled nose. The two of them look bashful to admit they're married. But all the same their love is there, easy to see. Not just in the stone glittering on her finger, or the band glinting on his. But in the way he tilts his head to her. In the demure dip of his lashes. In the merest expression of vulnerability that this is to begin with, this display of the King's most intimate moment for the world to see.

“And this beautiful thing, bundle of joy,” he gently pats his hand against the little child's back as she giggles into his shirt collar shyly, “is Princess Khilana, my daughter. _Our_ daughter.”

Five ten PM, mid-October and all of Kyrat has two new names to reflect upon. Two new faces engraved in their memories, in their TV screens. The rest of the world, technologically advanced as they are, are already abuzz with news and gossip, rumors and wagers. Things the Royal Administration will squash as they pop up. But their image is forever a part of history.

“You have these two to thank in part for the progress of this nation. Without my wife's guidance, without my daughter's light in any darkness, I fear I wouldn't serve you well,” the King says brusquely, “thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

Pagan Min says no more. With his wife and child close by his side he ushers them off camera, and soon the screen returns to static and fanciful Royal Marches. So ends His Royal Highness’s Second Annual Birthday Broadcast. Kyrat is aflutter now too with gossip and news, wagers and rumors. Extra guests are soon said to be flocking to the fortress, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of their Queen and the Princess. A window into the King's life that everyone who's anyone wants to press their face against while the rest of the globe is content to sit behind a screen and replay the events on their mobile devices.

Five twelve PM, mid-October marks the official end time of the Royal Broadcast.

Pagan Min is three years married. He affords his wife a tender kiss of gratitude when they're out of the public eye for a moment. His daughter giggles between them and kisses them both on the cheeks, nuzzling close.

Kyrat is on the mend.


End file.
